


if you want to leave, you can

by liamneeson



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Christmas Angst, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5539421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liamneeson/pseuds/liamneeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>bitter christmas chronicles following a breakup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you want to leave, you can

**Author's Note:**

> this was something I did for secret santa because nothing says Christmas to me like bitter memories

> _─ **seven months after**_

They see each other again seven months after everything falls apart.

It’s almost four AM when the upbeat melody of her ringtone breaks through the strains of the morning and the flimsy cocoon of sleep. Rest is a tough commodity for Bonnibel so her voice is a little tart and plenty tired when she answers the call and barely two hours into deep sleep, her mind takes much longer than usual to process what the operator says. That a Ms Abadeer, Marceline had been in an accident, groggy and banged up but otherwise fine; that Bubblegum was listed as her emergency contact and if she could come at her earliest convenience?

It is with a mechanic procedure that she operates: getting out of bed, brushing her teeth, pulling her hair up in a bun and dressing in fashion that would be wasted on anyone still awake at this hour. Even as she drives, she doesn’t allow even a sliver of panic to infiltrate the calm she has to gas herself with. It’s only when she is parked, her forehead resting on the steering wheel, willing her breath to even out that she lets herself worry. When she asks the temp for Marceline’s room, her hands still shake.

(It’s been seven months. The dust has yet to settle; Bonnibel has yet to think it ever will for her.)

She’s seen Marceline in hospitals before. Marceline is a rowdy girl by day and a destructive drunk by night. There have been cuts and bruises and God, there was the one time with the ambulance and the stomach pump and the too much drugs. But the novelty of it all is never lost on Bonnibel. She can never quite stomach how dead Marceline looks under the fluorescents of the hospital.

“Hey, Bonnie,” ( _bo_ - _neeee_ , like she forgets to stop) is the weak greeting from the hospital bed. “What are you doing here?”

Bonnie approaches the bed, quiet like she doesn’t want to exist here. “They told me you had an accident. You put me down as your emergency contact.”

Even to Marceline’s clouded mind, it sounds like an accusation. “Sorry. I don’t remember to change these things.” _You’re the one who told me to do it in the first place,_ she wants to add but doesn’t.

There’s nothing to say to that, or at least, Bonnibel doesn’t know what to any more. Marceline had always been forgetful. That much she still knows. “I can stay if you want.”

Marceline is already looking at the snow from the tiny window. Seeing it reminds Bonnie how cold she is even though her fingers are already numb and there’s probably miles of scarf around her neck. Marceline sits in nothing but a hospital gown and a blanket kicked to the feet of her bed. “Nah. I think I’m gonna go back to sleep. Finn and Jake are coming over later so don’t sweat it.” It’s a lie, but Marceline doesn’t think she owes Bonnie anything now, not the truth or any apologies.

Bonnibel nods because she doesn’t know what to say again. “Okay. I’ll be on my way. Call me if you need anything, my number hasn’t changed.” Did it make her a villain to wish that would never happen?

“Bye,” Bonnie hears Marceline say when she is already by the door. “Oh and Merry Christmas, Bon Bon.”

Now that’s something she forgot.

> _─ **eighteen months after**_

Marceline doesn’t like regret.

It’s a sentiment that gets old fast and harder to acquire even more so when one reaches the millennium mark of their life. People die and their feelings fester into something different so it was no hard feelings when Bonnibel left and left destruction in her wake. At least this is what Marceline tells anyone who wonders where that pink girlfriend of hers went. Even close friend receive this very statement no matter how much they insist Marceline tell the truth.

But this isn’t the feeling she get when news reach her of Bonnie’s engagement. Ice Cream Princess to marry Shipping Scion (subheading: juicy details of the whirlwind romance made in Monte Carlo on page 8). Beneath it, a formal photo of a couple in embrace, an impressive cushion cut diamond glaring on the lady’s hand.

Marceline is quick to snatch the premier lifestyle magazine that features her ex’s face; almost forgets to pay for it when she starts stuffing it into her coat like contraband.

Back at home, she reads how the heiress to an ice cream fortune wears a custom Chopard from her fiance just a year after meeting in Monaco during the summer. There is too much fanfare over shit Marceline doesn’t care about but she gets the gist: Bonnie is getting hitched to some suave motherfucker and her chest is hurting again, somewhere in the vicinity of that dead thing in her chest that never beat.

That night, she falls apart in increments but she tells herself the sixth bottle of something that burns is a toast to the happy couple.

> _─ **two years, eleven months after**_

One would probably remember to bring an umbrella out in the middle of December. Bonnie had the temperamental weather to blame for her forgetfulness; the sun had lost its bashfulness for the past few days but the rain came back with a vengeance now as Bonnie tried to make her way home.

As she stands under the pathetic shelter of a bus stop’s overhead roof, she debates calling for a car until the gray of her periphery breaks and someone is calling her name.

She looks up even though she doesn’t have to for her to know who speaks. Marceline is barely bundled up like the rest of common folk but she wears rain boots and sports an umbrella that was big enough to accommodate a family. “Sun allergies”, Bonnibel thinks and even in her mind she says it with quotation marks.

“Bonnie? Did you forget to bring an umbrella again?” The rain rebounding off Marceline’s umbrella adds to the water damage on her silk blouse. Bonnie doesn’t know if it bothers her that Marceline remembers that she is forgetful about these things; it was gloves or scarves or cell phones and there was that one time Marceline came home and Bonnie was asleep outside their door because she forgot her whole purse inside.  

“I didn’t forget it,” Bonnibel huffs when she finds her voice, just a little bit annoyed at the accusation. “I didn’t bring one because I didn’t think it would rain. It seemed nice to walk.”

Marceline is watching her face in that way that makes her look like a creepy gargoyle but Bonnibel won’t squirm. “I can drive you.” She is quick to take it back, a stammering mess. “I mean- I can call a cab or something. Whatever you like.”

But Bonnibel is smiling (grinning that nerd grin of hers) so Marceline relaxes. “I’ll take you up on the drive. I don’t think I can wait for a cab.” Bonnie steps under the big umbrella and she tells herself the only reason she steps closer is because she wants no more stains on her top. “My feet hurt a lot these days so I don’t stand on them for too long.”

“And you thought it was a good day to walk?” Marceline counters even as she unconsciously looks down to check said feet, only to see Bonnie’s hand on the swell of her belly inside her coat. “Oh, you-”

Bonnie’s laugh is a little nervous but genuine. She pulls on Marceline’s arm so they start walking. “Five months now. We haven’t told anyone yet. I’m scared the press will hound me or worse, my mother-in-law will raze me for still keeping my job while I carry her grandchild.”

The sound of wet, dead leaves crunching under their shoes rings in Marceline’s ears. She’s a mess of nerves and she can’t say why. She has to swallow a lump lodged in her throat before she can speak. “That’s nice,” and that’s the last thing spoken between them until they settle into Marceline’s car.

“You don’t seem very happy for me.” Bonnibel watches Marceline put the car in gear and finds it disheartening when the brunette won’t look at her.

“I am happy. For you.” Marceline replies but she can’t look at Bonnie; she thinks the sight of her now chases a panic up her chest. “Are you happy?” She hopes the question doesn’t sound bitter.

Bonnibel smiles and it makes something that feels like defeat churn in Marceline’s gut. “Yes, I suppose I am. Despite the circumstance. It was an arranged marriage. Encouraged more than arranged but my husband is kind.”

Bile rises in Marceline’s throat, fuel for venom. _I didn’t know I asked,_ she wants to say but doesn’t. She wonders if Bonnie ever thought her kind. If kind was what she wanted all along because Marceline was all ragged edges and a dense interior- far from kind like the powdered princes of a girl’s dreams. “That’s nice.” She repeats because it’s better than silence.

_We have until I get her home._

> _─ **almost six years after**_

To stave off a nervousness that stems deep in the gut, there is alcohol. Cowardly, tacky but effective in its velocity. If one was smart about their selected poison, the pace of a blessed numb comes quicker. Marceline congratulates herself: she can barely feel her lips already.

Jake pries the whiskey glass from her hands. “Had enough, I think. You wanna slow down there, Marcie? There are kids in this party.”

That she knows. She’d seen a kid with a head of pink all too familiar. “This is kind of cruel.”

Jake shrugs, samples the whiskey himself. “I warned you she was invited. No one twisted your arm and made you come here.”

Because he’s right and she’s miserable, Marceline takes the glass back and sips. She’d take it down a notch. “Merry freakin’ Christmas.”

Jake is patting her back and already rising from the patio table when small foosteps sound and a blur of pink and baby blue crashes onto Jake’s side. The boy clings to the older man’s leg, limbs coiled. “Uncle Jake, bottles fell on the floor and Aunt Lady says you have to clean it.”

“Good lord.” He spares Marceline a glance. “Uh-”

“It’s fine. I can watch him for a bit.” Unspoken: hurry back.

Jake runs off and the boy occupies the seat beside Marceline. Too close. There’s another bench on the other side of the table. She wondered what Bonnie would think about her son sitting with Marceline. “If your mom okay with you sitting with strangers, kid?”

The boy has his head tilted to look at her. It feels plenty odd, seeing the shape of Bonnie’s eyes in a different color looking at her. “Are you a stranger? I’ve seen you in pictures with mama. What’s your name?”

There’s a scratchiness in her throat but she won’t drink in front of a kid. “Marceline.” The polite thing would have been to ask for the boy’s name but Marceline doesn’t really want to. “Your mom has pictures of me?” On a dart board? On a black magic altar?

“Uh-huh. She shows me her albums a lot. Are you her friend?”

Marceline doesn’t know how to answer that so she doesn’t. Just when the kid opens his mouth, Bonnie rushes from inside. She looks a little stunned to see the boy sitting with Marceline who is slowly, inconspicuously dumping the contents of her glass on the grass. “There you are. We’re ready to set up the table.” To Marceline, she smiles and it’s an unsure thing but polite. “Hello Marceline. Merry Christmas.”

The boy calls a shrill bye as he runs back inside, zipping past his mother who approaches the table.

“Your son wants to know if I’m your friend.” It’s out of her smirking lips before she can stop it. For the first time that night, she regrets the whisky.

“What did you say?” Bonnie asks when she’s seated and for the third time in the past hour, Marceline wishes people wouldn’t sit so close to her. She can feel Bonnie’s thigh pressed against hers.

“Nothing. I didn’t know what to tell him.”

When Bonnie holds her empty hand, it’s still a bit of a wonder how different their hands are. Marceline still never moisturizes and there’s a ring on Bonnie’s finger. “We are friends, Marceline. I’m not mad at you.”

 _You mean not anymore._ Marceline remembers Bonnie did a lot of yelling, too. “Still weird though, huh? I get it.” She squeezes back before withdrawing her hand. “Let’s go in. I’m going to eat even if it means putting up with inane Christmas traditions.”

“Like bumping into each other during Christmastime?” Bonnibel teases, shoulder bumping against Marceline’s in jerky fashion.

Yeah, exactly like that.


End file.
